The children
have flown the coop.
Admittedly they'd grown
squawky lately—
moody and brooding,
pecking at each other
the way fledglings do.           

Rooster and I barely
scratching out a living—
no time to keep abreast
of their comings and goings.
We'd heard they'd run afoul
of that bad egg next door.
Maybe he convinced them
to test their wings.
Maybe we gave them
their nest egg too early,    
expecting their spirits
to soar.

Instead, we are stuck   
with fat bills
and an empty nest—
our best laid plans
gone awry. No time
to grouse about it;
now we must
hatch new ones.

 
This poem first appeared in Frost Fire Worlds, November 2014.
Used here with permission.